Fleshwound
It only hurts for a second,
a tiny little sting
before the red courses down,
driving inexorably toward the drain,
a journey from deep brick
to dark scarlet
to bright crimson
to muted cinnabar
until finally, as it circles the drain,
the palest of pinks
criss-crossing
the porcelain white.
The ever-present question remains:
Will it be enough this time?
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